Timothy Lea's Complete Confessions
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My dismissal to the kitchen does at least help my relationship with June and Audrey. Like everyone else on the staff, they trust me less than a Vietnamese threepenny bit but at least when they see me crawling along the corridors towards my new room–yes, Sid has moved into the management suite and I have been relegated to the ‘Penthouse Club’ or attic, as it is also known–they realise that being a nark is not all easy sailing.
‘Trying a bit of work for a change, are you?’ says June, as we bump into each other on my first evening.
‘Don’t be like that. I’m knackered.’
She is all tarted up and obviously about to grab a bit of the gay night life that Hoverton has to offer before it closes down at half past nine.
‘Why aren’t you downstairs with your mate?’
‘You ask him that. He wants me to learn the ropes. At the moment I feel like hanging myself with one of them.’
‘It’s not nice down there, is it?’ says June with a hint of sympathy creeping into her voice. ‘You have to be careful when you come out into the cold. It’s easy to catch a chill.’
‘I’ll remember that. Where are you going?’
‘They have a dance down at the Pier on Fridays. Do you fancy coming?’
‘I’m not much of a dancer at the best of times and tonight I couldn’t stand up for the national anthem. Thanks anyway. Another time.’
‘You sure you’re all right?’
‘Oh yes. Just fagged out, that’s all.’
I let myself into my room and notice her registering its number.
‘I’ll see you later,’ she says. ‘Bring you a little surprise. Who are you sharing with?’
‘Nobody at the moment. I think the bloke is on holiday or evaporated.’
‘Oh.’ Her face lights up. ‘See you.’
She trips off down the corridor and I peel off my clobber, have a sluice down in the washbasin and climb on to the bed to listen to the plumbing. It is just like being back at home with the sloping rafters inches from my nose.
I must have drifted off because the next thing I am aware of is a burst of laughter in the corridor and the sound of whispering and giggling right outside my door. I open my eyes as the door knob turns and June and Audrey come in wearing long nightdresses with frills at neck and hem. Very nice too. What is an additional peeper-bonus is the playmate they have brought with them. A coloured girl I have been quietly eyeing since I crossed the threshold. She is wearing a black shortie nightdress and carrying a bottle of brown ale.
‘Have you got an opener?’ she says and all three of them burst into fits of giggles.
‘You had a good evening, did you?’ I say, waking up fast and slipping my hand under the sheets to adjust periscope.
‘We brought you a present,’ says the coloured chick.
‘Which one?’ I say, looking from one to the other of them. More giggles.
‘This is Carmen,’ says Audrey. ‘She said she’d like to meet you.’
‘I never did.’
‘You did.’
‘I never.’
I imagine that Carmen is blushing but it is difficult to tell.
‘Anyhow,’ I say gallantly to cover her embarrassment, ‘the brown ale is for me, is it?’
‘Yes. We thought you needed building up.’ More giggles. If the sheets were transparent, they might change their minds.
‘I’ll have to open it, won’t I? Look the other way, girls.’
I grab a handy towel and drape it around my shapely loins as I slide out of bed. I don’t have an opener but I reckon I can knock the top off on the edge of the table–that and a few other things.
‘Hold this penny, luv.’
Carmen leans forward and I get an eyeful of lovely dusky knocker. Colour problem? You must be joking! It would be no problem for me, I can tell you. I hook the bottle top over the edge of the coin and give it a hard bash with my fist. Hard enough, anyway, to drive it down on to my bare toe. I scream loudly and drop the towel whereupon it is the girls’ turn to scream loudly. I don’t know what they are making all the fuss about. They have probably seen better and they must have seen worse.
‘Press down on the coin this time. OK, luv?’
Carmen nods and her face is a study in concentration as the mighty Lea fist is raised again. This time I give it a right belt and the top flies off–no trouble. Unfortunately it has become resentful of the treatment dished out to it and promptly discharges its contents over Carmen’s shorty nightdress. The poor bird is soaked to her lovely skin and when the flimsy material sticks to her it becomes transparent. No wonder that in all the excitement my towel falls off again. Hey ho, some things were clearly meant to be, eh? I slip my arm around Carmen’s waist and raise one and a half inches of brown froth to my lips.
‘Cheers, girls, thanks a lot. That was a very nice gesture. Now, what can I do for you?’
A diabolically stupid question you may well say, but I am a great one for observing the niceties. A tidal wave of female flesh bears me back on to the bed which promptly collapses under the strain. I don’t know what these birds have been drinking but it sure beats the hell out of diluted yogurt. None of them are slow starters but this jungle bunny Carmen climbs over me like I am a commando training course closely followed by the other two in flying T formation. I am fighting for sexual survival as I try to work out what I should be doing to which. In the end I give up and have a stab at anything that is moving. And, dear readers, there is a lot moving. Luckily my experiences with Nat and Nan have taught me the basic rudiments–and I do mean rudeiments! If there was going to be an action replay you would need about fourteen cameras to capture all the detail. And the noise. Oh, my God, the noise! That must be what attracts Miss Primstone. I get my head up just in time to see her turning into a great black prune in the doorway.
‘Urgh!’ she says. ‘Urgh!’ The noise is rather like a dog growling through a bone it is worrying. ‘I am going to report this disgusting behaviour to the management.’
She is just like the two old bags on the train because she shows no sign of going away but stands there drinking in the monstrous depravity and loving every moment.
‘I’m going to get on top of him now,’ says Carmen. ‘Do you want to watch that?’
Only then does the door close and Carmen makes good her threat–or promise, depending on which way you look at it. It is all good, clean, healthy fun in the modern tradition but I don’t think that Miss Primstone has nipped off to tell her diary about it. As Carmen gently rises and falls across my hips I can imagine the tales that are now being borne along the corridors of power. Reinforcements will soon be on their way.
‘Girls, girls!’ I bleat pathetically. ‘Don’t you think we’d better stop? We’ll all get the sack.’
‘I’d like to see them try. We can do what we like in our spare time.’
‘ “Spare” is right,’ I wheeze. ‘Now, get off me before something terrible happens.’
But it is like King Canute telling the waves to put a sock in it. The girls come at me as if they are trying to find pieces to keep as souvenirs. I struggle gamely, of course, but ten hours in the Cromby kitchen takes a lot out of you. It is becoming more like careless rupture than rapture.
Just when I can take no more, and give even less, the door flies open, and there, wearing curlers and a nightdress that looks like a dust sheet borrowed from a grand piano, is Miss Ruperts. She is carrying a shooting stick and this she promptly applies to June’s shapely rear portions.
‘Out, hussies! Out!’ she barks. ‘Disgusting little animals. Back to your lair, Jezebel.’ With that remark, Carmen cops a sharp prod on the sit-me-down. Miss Ruperts is obviously a very rustic lady and she lashes out with her shooting stick like she is making hay with it. In no time at all the birds have grabbed their nighties and scuttled out into the corridor and I am left to bear the full brunt of Miss Ruperts’ wrath.
‘And what have you got to say for yourself, you mongrel?’ she scolds. The shooting stick is hovering dangerously near my Action Man Kit and for a moment I have a nasty feeling that Miss R. may be contemplating doing a park keeper with it.
‘I didn’t invite them,’ I whine. ‘I was trying to sleep.’
‘You’re Mr Noggett’s protégé, aren’t you?’ she says suddenly, peering down at me. ‘I wonder what he’ll have to say about this.’
‘I don’t know. I should think–’
‘Put your pyjamas on and we will find out.’
‘What! Hey, wait a minute. We don’t want to disturb him now, surely. The whole thing was a joke that got out of hand. We weren’t really doing anything.’
‘Come,’ Miss R. waves her shooting stick as if she means business.
‘But–’
‘Get up! Don’t try and hide your pathetic body. I’ve mated horses.’
There seems to be nothing for it but to do as she says. So I pull on my pyjama bottoms and give her my pleading look. It does no good.
‘Come on. We will go and see Mr Noggett.’
Sidney is not going to like this, I think to myself as I am marched down the corridor sandwiched between Miss Ruperts and Miss Primstone. Now he has become Conrad Hilton he has rediscovered many of the little ways that made him such a prize tit when he was with Funfrall.
Knock, knock! Miss R. turns the handle before the sound has died away and I stumble into Sidney’s suite. Very nice, very nice indeed. Large settees, candelabra, a tray of drinks–Sandra is looking nice, too. She pops up from the sofa as the door flies open. Too bad she appears to be naked. Sidney, too, as we see when his red face and ruffled hair appear a couple of seconds later.
‘Sorry to trouble you, Sid,’ I say evenly. ‘But Miss Ruperts wants a word with you.’
‘Oh.’
I say ‘oh’ because I turn round to find that Miss Ruperts and Miss Primstone are leaving the room like it might start sinking at any moment. I guess that is the end of them for the evening.
‘Carry on, Sid,’ I say. ‘I expect she’ll take it up with you in the morning.’
I leave the room quickly, before he can throw anything at me.
CHAPTER FOUR
Sidney is very upset the next morning, when he calls me into his office, and it takes a long time before I can make him believe that coming round to his room was not my idea.
‘She said I was your protégé,’ I tell him.
‘Dirty old faggot. She should mind what she says,’ explodes Sid. ‘You can end up in court saying things like that. I’ve never fancied a fellow in my life.’
‘She probably realised that when she saw you with Sandra,’ I comfort him.
‘Yeah. What were you up to, then?’
I tell him about June, Audrey and Carmen and I can see his face cloud over immediately. Sort of a green cloud, it is.
‘You want to watch out,’ he says finally. ‘Two last night. Three tonight. Where’s it all going to end? How long before you’re dragging your mattress down to the telly lounge?’
‘Give over, Sid. Most of them are old enough to be my grandmother. And what about you, anyway?’
‘I’m cutting back. Only one last night. Anyway, it’s different in my case. In my position it’s practically staff relations.’
‘Any truth in the rumour that you’ve got Miss Ruperts lined up for tonight?’
Sid shudders. ‘Do me a favour, I’ve never fancied myself in jodhpurs. Still, I’d better do something to sweeten her up, hadn’t I?’
‘Why bother? Give her, the riding boot, Sid.’
‘No, I can’t do that. I still think she could be useful.’
‘You’re barmy, Sid.’
‘Watch it, Timothy–’
Whenever he calls me Timothy, I know he is rattled.
‘–remember who’s in charge. About time you were down in the kitchen, isn’t it?’
‘How much longer do I have to stay there, Sid? The heat is sapping my strength.’
‘Not enough, by all accounts. You give it another two days, and we’ll see if you’re nearly ready for waiter service.’
‘But, Sid–’
‘No buts. Now push off. I’ve got to see Miss Ruperts.’
So I go down to the basement to find that one of the sous chefs has resigned and the Chef Tournant–he turns his hand to anything, see?–gone to hospital. The two occurrences are not unconnected because the Sous Chef has resigned by pouring a pot of coffee down the front of the Chef Tournant’s baggy trousers. Very nasty! Passions do run high in the kitchens and with the heat and the foreigners you feel you are working in the middle of a jungle clearing sometimes. Only ‘She Who Must Be Obeyed’ holds us all together.
For some strange reason Mrs Caitley seems to take a fancy to me and gives me a friendly bash on the shoulder once we have provided the Chef Tournant with half a pound of lard to slide down the front of his pants.
‘I hear you were a naughty boy last night,’ she says gruffly. ‘Take my advice. Don’t get mixed up with any of the fillies in this place. Rotten little scrubbers most of them. Find yourself reporting to the vet in no time.’
She is putting it a bit strongly but there is no doubt that the staff in the Cromby–both male and female–have considerably more sex-drive than your grandma’s tabby. To wander about the upper floor of the hotel after ten o’clock at night you need to be fitted with bumpers. Luckily my room mate comes back from holiday and he is so repulsive that not even the randiest bird in the place wants to get through the door.
It is not until I progress from the kitchens to becoming a waiter that I have what you might call my first brush with one of the paying customers. To be exact, I become a commis waiter. This is the humblest form of life in the dining room and is the bloke who brings the grub from the kitchen and puts it down on the table for the Chef du Rang to slap down in front of the customers. After a few days of doing this you may be allowed to serve a portion of vegetables as a special treat. A Chef du Rang is a senior waiter who looks after a few tables, and aspires to eventually become a maitre d’hotel. Fascinating, isn’t it? No? Oh, well, please yourself.
One morning, as I go into the dining room, I get an elbow in the ribs from Petheridge the night porter, who is just going to turn in after his labours. He, you may remember, is the gentleman who was spread out starkers on Audrey’s bed and is no stranger to a spot of the other.
‘Couple of right little love birds flew in last night,’ he says with a leer. ‘Table Six.’
‘They up already?’
‘About half a dozen times, I should reckon.’ He gives me another nudge. ‘No. I expect they couldn’t sleep for the excitement. Hey, that Carmen’s a one, isn’t she? I’ve heard of Carmen Rollers, but she’s ridiculous. Damn near broke up my set.’
Petheridge is a big, strapping bloke with a jaw line that makes Charlton Heston look like a nancy boy. The thought of him and Carmen on the job is enough to keep the blue movie industry in ideas for years.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Very nice. Sleep tight, Peth.’
He ambles off scratching the front of his trousers and I go into the dining room. Table Six. Oh yes! At first I can hardly see them because they are so small but there sit this teeny couple with honeymoon written all over them. The bloke is wearing his short-sleeved multi-patterned holiday shirt with matching scarf and has a camera on the table in front of him so he can rush out and start snapping everything that moves and the girl is all scrubbed and virginal with her hair pulled back from her face and her skin glowing with health and expectation. She blushes like fury when the bloke asks her whether she would prefer tea or coffee and goes berserk pouring it out for him. Not like the other married couples in the room who just stretch out their hands for pieces of toast from behind spread newspapers.
‘Do you know what the weather forecast is?’ says the bird brightly when I bring them some more marmalade. The bloke loves his marmalade.
‘I think they said we were in for a fine spell.’
‘Oh, goody. Did you hear that, Roger? Lots of lovely Dickies.’
She turns to me. ‘My, my–husband is very keen on photography.’
‘Not very good, though,’ says hubby bashfully.
‘Oh, darling! You’ve won the club trophy two years running. And what about that photograph you had published in Camera News? “The Old Forge by Moonlight”.’
‘It was very dark.’
‘That was the way they printed it, darling.’
She turns to me again. ‘Don’t you listen to him. He’s awfully good, really.’
What a nice kid! I think to myself. Ain’t love grand? Nice to know that there are still a few pleasant, uncomplicated people about. I avoid Carmen’s glance as she sneaks into the dining room. One thing you can never tell about her is whether she has dark rings under her eyes.
In the days that follow, I begin to take a special interest in love’s young dream and it is therefore a surprise when, one morning, only Roger appears at the breakfast table. He is looking strained–a condition which does not totally surprise me–and fiddling uneasily with the cord of his Leica.
‘Shall I wait for modom?’ I say thoughtfully.
‘No. She’s having breakfast in her room today. Just a cup of coffee for me, thanks.’
A cup of coffee? That is hardly the stuff to give Wee Georgie Wood the strength to blow up a couple of balloons for a kid’s birthday party. What ails our boy? Whilst others bosh back their sausage and egg, Roger gazes glumly out of the windows towards the oil tankers which are leaking slowly across the horizon. When he eventually departs, his coffee is cold and untouched and there is no sign of wifey. I watch carefully and he does not go upstairs but leaves the hotel and walks slowly along the promenade. He is not heading for civilisation, but open country. For the first time that I can remember he has not taken a picture of anything before he disappears from sight.
What is up? A lover’s tiff? I wonder what wifey’s mood is at this moment. To find out I ask the waiter who has taken her breakfast up. Tear-stained and without appetite, are his comments and he has an untouched tray to prove it. Mrs Richards does not come down until eleven o’clock and sits by herself writing postcards until lunch time when Mr R. returns and they go silently in to lunch. After lunch they go up to their room and then it is Mrs R. who emerges, her eyes wet with tears, and goes off by herself.
The next day they are down to breakfast together but there is an air of crushing silence about them that makes me clear my throat every time I decide to speak. They spend the day together but in the evening it is Mr Richards who eats alone in the dining room while his wife takes her meal upstairs.
On the third day I become elevated to floor service and see neither of them but the fourth I am told that there is a breakfast to be taken up to Number Six. One breakfast! I tap discreetly on the door and a voice so low I can hardly hear it tells me to come in. Mrs Richards is propped up on a couple of pillows and, as far as I can see, is alone. Again, she looks red-eyed with crying.
‘Are you going to have it in bed, modom?’
She looks at me for a long moment and then her lower lip starts trembling.
‘Now come on,’ I say. ‘Don’t–’
But it is no good. She bursts into floods of tears and throws herself face down on the bed.
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ she moans.
‘Come on, cheer up,’ I say. ‘Look, I’ve brought you a nice kipper.’
I feel a right berk saying that, but what can you do in the circumstances? ‘Shall I fetch the doctor; I think he’s sobered up–I mean up and about.’ Stupid slip, that, but like everyone else in the place, Dr McDonald seems partial to his ‘wee drappy’.
‘No. I don’t need a doctor. No, I’m sorry. Leave the tray. I’ll see if I can face something later.’
‘Shall I find your husband?’
At the mention of the word ‘husband’ she starts sobbing twice as violently and buries her face in the pillow. I try and comfort her but she waves me away and in the end I find myself shaking my head in the corridor.
I see neither her nor her husband for the rest of that day and imagine that they must have checked out. It is therefore a surprise when, next morning, I am told to take breakfast to Room Six. Again, just one breakfast.
This time there is a more cheerful response to my knock on the door and I notice that Mrs Richards is wearing a frilly nightdress and a trace of make-up.
‘Morning,’ she says brightly, before I can open my mouth. The sparkle in her eyes may be the remnant of a tear or a return to the mood she was in when I first saw her.
‘Morning.’
‘I’m sorry about yesterday. I was very down in the dumps. I don’t know what came over me.’ While she is talking her hands are gripping the edge of the counterpane and she looks into my eyes as if trying to find something.
‘Don’t worry. I expect you felt a bit strange, being married and all that.’ I know Peter O’Toole would have put it better, but he had the education.
‘You’re very understanding. Do you often get women who burst into tears all over you?’
‘Not so far. I’ve only been doing this job for a week.’
I give her a quick rundown on my curriculum vitae–no madam, it does not mean what you think it does–and she nods understandingly.
‘So you’re new at it, too?’
I am not quite certain what she means, so I give her a sympathetic smile–at least, I hope it is sympathetic–and keep my mouth shut.
‘I’ve brought you some nice grapefruit segments,’ I say eventually, as her eyes continue to follow the passage of the blood round my body.
‘You’re so kind, you always try and bring me something nice, don’t you?’
‘It’s all part of the service.’
She is a very appealing bird, this one, and I can feel myself getting my guinea-pig stroking syndrome (I got that word from ‘It Pays to Increase Your Word Power’. Thank you, Reader’s Digest.)
‘Roger said you were kind.’ Her lip starts to tremble. Oh, no! I can’t stand this again.
‘Shall I open the windows?’ I say hurriedly. ‘It’s a lovely day again.’
‘It’s all right. I’m not going to cry. I’m sorry.’ She puts down the bedclothes and smiles up at me. ‘Are you married?’
‘Blimey no. I mean, I’ve nothing against marriage of course. It’s just that I don’t think I’m ready for it.’
‘I should think you’re more married than I am.’ I don’t know what she means and my expression telegraphs it. ‘I’m sorry,’ she continues, ‘I wasn’t trying to be abstruse.’
Just as well, I think, because I don’t know what it means.
‘I mean,’ and then she pauses.
‘Yes?’ I say helpfully.
‘My marriage hasn’t worked out quite the way I thought it would.’
‘Oh well, it’s early days yet. I’ve heard it takes a little getting used to. They say the first ten years are the worst.’ Her lip starts to tremble again. ‘I was only joking, of course.’
‘Sex.’ The word comes out of her mouth like a bullet.
‘Would you like it on your lap?’ I swallow hard. ‘I mean, the tray, of course.’
‘I haven’t. We’ve not–’
‘I’ll pour you some coffee, shall I?’
‘He’s always taking photographs.’
‘I’ve noticed. Careful, you’re spilling your grapefruit.’
‘He said he respected me.’
‘That’s very nice.’
‘I’ve never–’
‘That’s not so unusual. I mean–’
‘Neither has he.’
‘Oh.’
The juice from her grapefruit segments has leaked on to the toast and she is looking out of the window as she talks as if speaking into a tape recorder.
‘I’d better take that before you spill everything.’
‘Oh, sorry. I don’t really feel hungry anyway.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘Roger?’
‘Yes.’
‘It sounds stupid but I think he’s gone home to mother.’
‘He’s left you?’
‘Not permanently. No, he was upset. We were both upset. I am upset. He’s coming back, I think. Oh, I don’t know.’ She looks as if she is about to burst into tears again.
‘Because you can’t–er–I mean, because you–er–haven’t got it together yet?’
‘ “Is there something wrong with us?” I’ve read books about it. Every magazine you pick up is full of articles about it.’ She suddenly looks me straight in the eyes. ‘I’m sorry. You must think I’m mad talking to you like this.’